


Deaf Heaven

by AlphaCygni



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Episode: s03e05 Second Skin, Gen, No plot but plenty of kanar, POV Elim Garak, Preloc and pre-slash, Sulking, questionable Bajoran phonetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 02:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaCygni/pseuds/AlphaCygni
Summary: He was a man exiled and yet, for a few minutes, he had been home.It was the worst torture imaginable.Garak muses on the events of the episode “Second Skin.”





	Deaf Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Глухой и равнодушный небосвод](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724164) by [Star_Trek_20XX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Trek_20XX/pseuds/Star_Trek_20XX)



> I watched "Second Skin" (aka the one where Kira is turned into a Cardassian) several times during the course of writing [Proof](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172872/chapters/27630765). After one of them, it occurred to me how jarring those events might have been for Garak. And this happened.

Several months earlier, during one of their more rousing debates, the doctor had introduced him to the aphorism “no good deed goes unpunished.” Though a welcome display of cynicism from the young man, the sentiment was, Garak had pointed out, rather inaccurate. Good deeds, in his experience, didn’t tend toward punishment _or_ reward. More often good deeds went unnoticed altogether, along with bad deeds and ambiguous deeds and mundane deeds. All things being equal, the universe bent decidedly in the direction of indifference.

And today was no exception.

Lieutenant Dax had accompanied the Major to the infirmary, and Ghemor insisted on joining them. Sisko had no doubt retreated to file whatever report Starfleet required after sneaking into hostile territory to retrieve a surgically-altered officer (Garak felt sure they had such a form at the ready). Odo…well, he wasn’t entirely sure where Odo had gone, but, based on the suspicious look the changeling had given him on board the _Defiant_ , he expected to find the security protocols on all station systems extensively overhauled.

And so he was left standing in the airlock, the familiar cold of the station settling back over him, alone.

It wasn’t only good deeds that went unnoticed, it seemed.

The thought reeked of self-pity, and he swiped it away, replacing it with a more useful branching list of options. There would be little benefit to following the Major or Lieutenant Dax to the infirmary. The good doctor would have his hands full trying to undo the hard work of Garak’s former colleagues, and, besides, Garak was in no mood to be in the same room with Ghemor if not required.

Or with Sisko, when it came to it. Hopefully it would be some time before circumstance threw them together again. He’d sat in tight rooms across from enough men to recognize when he’d met his match.

Intervening in this messy affair set a bad precedent, he knew. Allowing himself to be bullied into _participating_ was even worse. Any other day he would have put his mind to developing some defense against further extortion. But today…today his heart simply wasn’t in it.

He drew his arms close, drumming his fingers and trying not to think about the abominable chill. He knew where he _should_ go next, loathe as he was to do it. There were, after all, several salvageable hours of retail left in the day, and this little excursion had put him behind on his commissions.

_No use sulking, Elim_. Back to work. Work was always the best remedy.

But the shop’s door stopped him cold.

As he reached down to key-in the entry code, he glanced at the placard just above the pad. It was hardly the first time he’d done so: the Federation had installed it years ago. Today, however, he _noticed_ it:  he _read_ it. “Garak’s Clothiers”, it proclaimed in all the official languages of the Promenade.

Standard was first, of course, because despite what idealistic Starfleet officers like Bashir said, the Federation was as much an empire as any other, and the conqueror’s language always comes first.

Next was Bajoran, which no longer galled him in and of itself: he’d had years to adjust to _that_ absurd reality. What _did_ rankle, however, was that Bajoran had no precise means of rendering his name. The vowels transformed into round, melodious aaaaahhh’s—smoothing his edges into something more agreeable. Something plain and simple.

The Klingon was no better, though smooth and melodious hardly applied. In the Klingon his name became a verbalized gulp.

The Vulcan sounded every bit as bloodless and dull as one would expect.

And there it was at the bottom—the very last—realized as it should be in crisp Kardasi, almost an afterthought.

A last Kardasi afterthought. _How apropos of_ you _, Elim._

The doors hissed open, but he closed them again. This shop was for some smoothed-over Gaaaraak. He couldn’t be that man right now.

He considered his quarters but knew that option branched, inevitably, into overindulgence. There would be grief and recrimination and likely too much kanar. No, he wanted to dip his toe into this feeling, not drown himself in it.

So he found his way to Quark’s almost without a second thought.

It was an off time of day, which meant that, aside from the ever-present Lurian and a few anonymous faces here and there, the bar was subdued. Dabo tables were dim and quiet; conversations maintained a steady murmur. He typically avoided Quark’s unless something—or someone—needed observing, but today it seemed the ideal spot to indulge in a nice, moderate fit of pique.

His usual table was best-suited for his usual purpose. Though partially obscured by a bulkhead and half in shadow, it offered a clear view of the entrance and most of the top floor. An excellent spot for watching.

But he wasn’t interested in watching today. He wasn’t interested, really, in anything but the spangled view outside the porthole on the upper deck. So he sat beside it and sipped kanar and, for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to stop noticing anything else.

His eyes found it, as they tended to—the one particular star that drew his mind into orbit as easily as any planet. Usually, he catalogued it and moved on. Today, however, he allowed it to linger. To ache. To feel as far away as it well and truly was.

Three years. _Three years_. It had almost been enough. He had almost begun to believe it himself, that smoothed-over version that advertised itself in Bajoran before Kardasi.  

But the moment he’d looked into that gul’s eyes and watched them tremble at his command, the simple tailor had fallen away as easily as sloughing off old scales. Rounded vowels turned sharp, and he’d been himself again. The disruptor fit, its draw like a dance. He’d killed, and not like Toran, either. No, he’d killed _Corbin_ , a man he’d known since Bamarren. A man he respected. A man whose enjoinment he’d attended. Verana was the wife’s name, if he remembered.

He’d left Verana a widow today.

And it had felt… _wonderful_.

And terrible.

Wonderful to shake off the stupor and the plain gray boredom. Wonderful to thrill at something greater than a provocative neckline or a bold combination of patterns.

But terrible, too. Terrible to realize that some part of him…guls and gettle, some part of him _had_ been smoothed over.

_Treason is in the eye of the beholder_ , he’d said to Entek just before he scattered the man’s atoms to the three moons.

_Is that what you believe now, Elim?_

It was Tain’s voice. It was _always_ Tain’s voice.

There had been a time—and not so long ago, really—when his heart beat in perfect rhythm with every machination of the Order. He’d been joined to that whole, chosen to enforce its will, charged with its defense. Treason was dictated by the Order, and he took down the dictation.

But here, alone on this cold metal island, his heart had learned new rhythms. Now, he stormed through doors alongside Starfleet. Rescued Bajorans and dissidents. Killed Order agents.

Thoughts and judgements and plans of his own had sprouted up like weeds in the once well-ordered garden of his mind.

Then again, he lived in the weeds now, and if that was anyone’s fault, it was Tain’s. Perhaps one day Tain would reap what he’d sown.

 Or perhaps, as Entek had promised, the Order would simply uproot the whole damned garden and salt the earth behind.

“Can I get you another, Garak?” Quark hesitated, clearly torn between making a sale and interrupting a moody Cardassian.

He took a deep breath, pulling the plain and simple tailor back over himself.  The smile strained. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a bit early for two.”

“Looks to me like you could use another.”

He examined the Ferengi, another stranger in a strange land. Quark had been among aliens for some time, but the arrangement seemed to fit him as well as his admirably tailored but otherwise questionable suits. “Tell me, Quark. Do you ever miss Ferenginar?”

Quark let out a laugh. “Miss Ferenginar? Garak have you ever _been_ to Ferenginar?”

“I can’t say I’ve had that pleasure.”

“Well, I’ll save you the trouble: it’s no pleasure. It rains all the time. Swamps everywhere. The price of real estate is outrageous. The price of _everything_ is outrageous. And…honestly?” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “It has a _smell_.” He met Garak’s raised eyeridges with a sad nod. “Like old shoe leather and spoiled _mograt’_ s milk. Gets into everything, and let me tell you, it’s not easy to get out.”

“I must say I’m surprised. I took you for a man of his people.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m as proud a Ferengi as you’ll meet. I just prefer to be proud from a distance. A nice, climate-controlled distance.” But after a moment’s further thought, the Ferengi tilted his head in amendment. “Mind you, you can’t find decent borogi larval pie anywhere else. Ever had it?”  

He shook his head, certain that he never would.

“Well, if you ever _are_ unlucky enough to end up on Ferenginar, give it a try. I’ve served it here a few times, but it’s never quite right.  I’ve started to think the smell and the humidity are part of the experience.”

“Ahh, yes. Context is everything,” he said, glancing out the window and finding the star again.

Quark watched him as he picked up the empty glass and set it on the tray. “Then let me apply some context. You’re homesick.”

He forced his tone to stay light. _Smoothed_. “Cardassia is…further away than usual today.”

Quark’s nod was surprisingly sympathetic. “Tell you what—I’ll bring you up some sandpeas and yamok sauce, on the house. One émigré to another.”

He did his best to appear grateful, though he might have preferred Ferengi bug pie to yamok sauce, and he _certainly_ preferred Quark’s usual demeanor to this sympathetic one. “And, perhaps another glass of kanar, as you said.”

_So petulant even Quark’s taking pity on you_. Yes, he really _did_ need another drink.

If only the excursion hadn’t been so brief. If only they’d been able to delay for twenty minutes. Thirty. Long enough to snatch an _ikri_ bun or lie on a sunning array or catch a glimpse of the _arat’hira._ It was Velet afternoon: the _azaleira_ s would be playing there.

As it was, they’d only been able to catch the scent. Cardassia had a smell, too: or rather an unmistakable combination of smells that totaled up to _home_. The brittle crispness of dry air. The acrid brown of skimmer exhaust. The thick smear of fishoil from food carts and the earthiness of baked clay edifice.   

Sure no one was watching, he allowed himself a quick sniff at his sleeve. The scent lingered, but, like memory, was fading quickly. Mixing with other smells.

The smell of yamok sauce and cheap kanar and—wait, that was …

He caught the familiar musk just as the young doctor rounded the stairs to the second level. When their eyes met, that smile ignited, bright as the Taluvian constellation on a clear night.

This time, Garak didn’t have to force his smile in return. “Doctor. What a pleasant surprise. I expected you’d be with the Major for some time yet.”

“Oh, they brought in a specialist from Jalanda for the reconstruction. I just did the DNA verification and reassured everyone that she was, in fact, Bajoran under all those ridges.” He reached down and popped a sandpea in his mouth. “Speaking of surprises…found yourself a new table, have you?”

“It’s always useful to observe a space from different viewpoints, Doctor. An essential of good reconnaissance.”

“Duly noted.” He sat, surveying the table and the view. “Hmm. Yamok sauce and kanar and the medial spur of the Denorios Belt. How thoroughly… _Cardassian_.”

Something in that tone made it easy to turn away from the window. “Doing some reconnaissance of your own today, Doctor?”

 “Only of you, Garak.” The words were teasing, probing.

He allowed himself a brief taste of the human’s scent once more. It wasn’t home, but it was delicious.

“While we waited for the DNA scan, Dax told me about your daring trip through Cardassian space. About you dashing in to the Major’s rescue with Odo and Commander Sisko. Sounded pretty impressive for a tailor.”

“Oh, I’m afraid young Miss Dax _does_ have a tendency to embellish.”

“Young Miss Dax is over three hundred years old,” Bashir reminded him through a mouthful of sandpeas. “And I’d think you more than anyone would appreciate a little _embellishment_.”

 He merely smiled in return. It was a lovely game he and the doctor played, and Garak knew when to stay quiet and let the human’s imagination fill in the gaps.

But the playful look turned unexpectedly serious at the edges. “Then …I thought about it…that’s the first time you’ve seen Cardassia since… you left.”

“No need to be so delicate, Doctor. Since I was exiled.”

 “Right. So I just…I thought it might have been a…complicated trip for you.”

Oh dear. _Perhaps not so unnoticed after all._

He didn’t trust his tone to stay even, so he let it play on his face instead: _Doctor, whatever do you mean?_

“I know you miss it. And then you were there but couldn’t stay. And Dax said you had to… kill someone. From the Order. I— if it were me, I thought, all that together might…hurt…?” The human eked the last word out with even less grace than usual, no doubt nervous accusing Garak of something as banal as emotional vulnerability.

“Ahh, well, of course I would have preferred to stay. But it doesn’t do to dwell on such things.” _Said the hypocrite. So very hypocritically._

 “Still…it was a lot to ask of you.”

_No, Doctor. It was torture_. Torture of a kind more sinister than he himself had ever devised.

Bashir’s eyes went soft as Tholian silk. “And it was a kind thing to do for the Major.”

“Kindness doesn’t enter into it, Doctor. If I’m to stay on this station, I will have to be of use.” He stopped short of revealing Sisko’s strong-arming. That was a tidbit for another day, when he was more inclined to trample the young man’s illusions. “Besides, while I may miss home, I _do_ have a livelihood here, such as it is. Hemming trousers and making dresses and, of course, serving Cardassia however I am able.” He gave the human an obvious look.

And it earned him a smirk. “Observing from different viewpoints, eh?”

They shared a beat, and, as it sometimes did, that full and winking silence touched a part of him long ignored. A place rubbed raw from loneliness and soothed by liquor and human eyes.

 “Yes, well, _I’m_ glad you came back at any rate.” Long limbs unwound as Bashir leaned in and rested his forearms on the table. Underneath, Garak felt the slight slide of a knee against his.

“Is that so?” A smile more genuine than plain and simple.

“Who else could explain to me what the hell Preloc is on about in this bloody second act? I’ve read it twice now, and I still feel as if I’ve shown up for a test unprepared.”

The chill in the air suddenly warmed with interest.

“I mean, one minute Gheret is contemplating shadows sliding across the Tarlak Grounds and the next he’s picking through a pile of Klingon corpses!”

Oh yes. That bit. He’d been looking forward to the doctor getting to that bit. “Ahh. One of Preloc’s most masterful transitions.”

“Transitions?! The way she compares the red of the sunset to the blood from Gornath’s throat...? I’d just eaten breakfast!”

“The lyricism of the fall of Qo’nos is renowned in the Kardasi canon.” He sighed. “Which you’d be able to appreciate if you didn’t rely on the translation matrix so much.”

“Oh, I _apologize_ that my Kardasi isn’t up to Preloc’s standards yet.”

“It only took me three months to become fluent in Standard, and, though I understand Kardasi offers more of a challenge, you’ve had three _years_ now.”

“Well I _am_ trying, but Kardasi is just…so—so—“

“On second thought, Doctor, perhaps you should concentrate on a deeper mastery of your own language first.”

The human gave him a withering look. It leant those usually gentle features a sharper edge _._ “Did I say I was glad you’d come back? I think I’d like to amend that.”

_Delightful_. Yes. Things had warmed up quite nicely.

It took only a moment for the doctor’s frown to give way to a grudging grin, and he leaned over the railing and signaled for a drink.

Well, this was a pleasant surprise. An afternoon of Preloc with a far prettier view than any window on the station had to offer. Perhaps this fit had run its course, then.

He turned from the porthole to that soft human face, connecting star to brown eyes over his kanar.

Yes, the universe _was_ indifferent to good deeds. But every once in a while, a good deed might get noticed by someone who truly mattered.

“Alright, then,” Bashir said through an exaggerated sigh. “The fall of Qo’nos. Make your case, Garak.”

Garak sat back and savored his name on those lips. Imperfectly rendered, yes—but perfect all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> So there's not much to this, but I hope it's enjoyable nevertheless! :) 
> 
> The title comes from Shakespeare's [Sonnet 29](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45090/sonnet-29-when-in-disgrace-with-fortune-and-mens-eyes) because I am irredeemably pretentious and because that sonnet was just perfect for this scene.
> 
> The term _azaleiras_ (as players of the _azal_ ) was swiped from wobblycompetencies's fantastic [Scenes from a Disaster Zone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311746). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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